


Mo'minion

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Addendum [3]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Development, Episode: s10e19 Dominion, Gen, Missing Scene, Missing Scenes, Team Bonding, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-18 09:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: Third in a series of stories containing vignettes from episodes in the 9th and 10th season to help develop Vala's character more. This one adds six scenes to Dominion. Canon compliant so there are no pairings, but there is some sexual tension because it's Vala.





	1. A Good Plan is Hard to Find

**Author's Note:**

> The title is supposed to be More Minion, shorted to Mo'minion. Get it? Because there's more to the episode? Literally the hardest thing about writing this series is the titles. 
> 
> As always if you'd like to see an episode expanded upon, feel free to let me know and I'll add it to the list.

“It’s a bad idea.” She’s trailing him through the hallway. Doesn’t know how this always happens, whether she waits to ambush him, or if this just comes naturally to her at this point.

He actually went home last night, to an apartment that looks almost as ancient as some of the artifacts in his lab. With the Ori invasion looming over them, claiming more planets each day, and their messed-up missions: the bungled first contact, the vendettas, her dad showing up to pull at her heart strings—and how he hated pushing her towards him, because he’s read her file.

Didn’t mean to read her file but it’s been read and—they just needed a solution to the Adria problem, one they didn’t have time to deal with.

Lately it always seems like when there’s a problem no one’s willing to solve, the easy solution is to just throw Vala at it.

Sacrifice her feelings, her body, her daughter—because on SGC official reports, she doesn’t matter as much as the rest of them.

And he hates it.

“Daniel.” She steps double time trying to keep up with him as he weaves down serpentine hallways he used to know better than her—until she was here more than a month and then he knows her late nights were spent breaking into places with an iron clad security clearance.

Breaking into places that even he doesn’t have the authority to visit.

He used to give her words for it.

But then he read her file.

And now he supposes that that doesn’t make him much better than her.

“At least tell me why it’s such a bad idea.” She smacks into the wall behind him, not so stealthy on her feet as she stumbles to keep up. The same way she runs blindly into his lab late at night, while he pretends to be skimming an Ancient text or cross-referencing gate addresses with ones they’ve already explored to try and find the Clava Thessara Inifinitas. Instead he’s staring at a picture of his wife, and trying to remember the intonation of her voice, how she pronounced certain words, the way she smelled, and his mind leaving him with a huge gaping chasm, that no matter now much he researches, or reads, or explores, will never be filled.

“Oh, because it’s been about three months since the last time your memory was wiped.” Holds his coffee in one hand, weaving towards the gateroom, the conference room so they can discuss potential ideas on how to halt the invasion because the device he gave up his mind for, gave up his privacy and weeks of his life for, probably didn’t work.

She sidesteps and then plants herself in front of him. No doubt well aware of the busy air men scattering around her, trying to do their daily duties while she stands akimbo, pigtails bouncing a bit and in one of those fatigue jump suits.

He dressed her in one of those jumpsuits on the Prometheus after he zatted her.

Then he read her file.

“Daniel is the three storey, battle ram proof guard tower protecting your emotional stability and compassion finally crumbling just a speck?”

“That’s—oddly specific.”

“I’m nothing if not embedded in the fine details, which is why this will work.”

They’ve somewhat marched, half-danced, backwards towards the debriefing room door. She plugs it, extending her arms across, knowing he won’t deign to touch her, or shift her out of the way—but it’s not that now.

Hasn’t been that in a while, but belief is a strong thing, ask the Ori.

Normally, would roll his eyes, grumble her name and just sneak in after someone else, or maybe even give up the meeting altogether, but maybe playing on her level will win him this round, so they don’t scramble her brain and send her across the galaxy unsupervised again when the SGC has countless enemies and she has a personal list twice as long.

With a smug half-grin that makes her give him a genuine smile before he even opens his mouth, he answers. “Maybe I think your bird brain can’t handle another scramble.”

It sort of backfires, because she leans into him, her smile now cheeky and her words a purr, “and maybe you just like who I am now.”

“No—” but he doesn’t remove her hand from his chest, because when she was gone, when they lost her for two weeks that seemed like two lifetimes, he couldn’t remember her voice, or if she pronounced it day-ta or dah-ta, or what she smelled like. “I just think I’ll like the braindead version of you less.”

“Now, that might just be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” Mitchell brushes by her and she lets him without hesitation, without dragging her eyes away from his.

Prays Mitchell will just go into the room with his peanut butter bagel and his coffee and sit ready to hear about Vala’s plan to sacrifice herself again.

He doesn’t.

“What’s all this about?”

“Daniel doesn’t like my plan, and he won’t admit that it’s because he’s secretly harbors a deep seeded concern for me.” She does this thing where she talks to Mitchell, but she’s still staring at him, she does it all the time and he never knows how she’s able to hold people so well.

Mitchell takes a chunk out of his bagel and the scent of peanuts wafts into the air. “What’s the plan?”

“Vala wants to implant a memory of us abandoning her, to trick Adria so we can capture her.” They both wait patiently. Her face still bright and hopeful to be praised again for putting her life on the line. Her hand vacates his jacket and she clasps them together, waiting for feedback.

 “Oh,” Mitchell takes a pronounced sip of his coffee and swallows. “That’s a bad plan.”


	2. Fat Stacks

They drugged her.

He doesn’t know if she knows, or if this is one of those things they’ll sweep under the rug with her. Like the time she went missing for two weeks and when she came back—it still upsets his stomach.

She used her never ending web of contacts to secure them a cargo ship, one that, of course, barely works, and guaranteed herself a pay raise if her plan is successful—which is very likely won’t be. He and Mitchell have already started discussing contingency plans because there is no way they’re going to talk a dejected and frightened Vala into coming back to the SGC with them.

They’re probably going to have to hunt her down.

“If push comes to shove, we can always zat her and get her on the ship.” Mitchell sits across from him, hands crammed together and elbows on his knees, a really relax stance for a military Lieutenant Colonel—too much of a relaxed stance for anyone to have right now.

Teal’c and Sam speak in broken whispers up in the cockpit area, he catches a few sentences here and there. Discussing logistics, distances and the geographical information of the planet they’re dropping her off on. But they never discuss how dangerous it is, how unnecessary it is.

“We’re not zatting her.” Rubs his hot hand over his face, feels the tightness in his eyes from lack of sleep, from not being able to relax, from lingering allergies and ancient dust getting sucked into his sinuses that sit heavy like his stomach.

Mitchell cranks his head back to him from watching Vala sleep. She’s tucked on her side on one of the benches, a fuzzy blanket tucked up around her shoulders, her wrists limp, but her fingers curled into her palm. Always figured she’d snore—it would just fit her character—but she never has, not on overnight missions, or during car trips, or falling asleep in his lab or the cafeteria. Even when they shared a bed as Harrod and Salis, she just sort of hummed in her sleep, like it’s white noise to allow her own mind to relax.

“If it means getting her ass back on this ship, then hell yeah we are.”

“She already doesn’t trust us,” he huffs gesturing to her, his voice a little loud, his body a little on edge because this plan is so idiotic and has the biggest holes for her to slip right through and into a bounty hunter’s hands, or back to the Goa’uld, or just anywhere not back on Earth.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong here, Sunshine.” Mitchell’s eyebrow cocks towards him and his lips take on a wayward grin. “But didn’t you zat her more than once when you first met?”

“She was dangerous then. She didn’t know—”

“And now she knows us, but she’s not going to like us—”

“Colonel Mitchell,” Teal’c beckons from the controls.

Mitchell stands, stretching a bit. “As much as she’s part of the team, we have no idea what she’s capable of.”

Doesn’t say a word, just glances back at her, making sure she’s still cozy and calm. That she can enjoy these final few minutes before they abandon her.

Teal’c points at a planet, it’s Earth adjacent, land and water masses, more brown than green though and he thinks it’s going to be one of those medieval, prairie planets instead of a pastoral one.

“We will be landing in ten minutes.”

“What’s the game plan?” Sam questions, signaling something be given to her with a quick curl of her fingers.

Mitchell shuffles, his fatigues ruffling as he reaches back into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. His real wallet, not an assigned one for a mission. He cracks it open, flipping through and there’s a driver’s license, and—

“They’re copies.” Must see his face turn a little white as he hands the wallet to Sam who stashes it full of some currency.

“She’s too good at picking out details that don’t fit.” Sam tells him this like he doesn’t know, like he’s never wanted to take her to a museum, just to see how many of the paintings are replicas, but he has a fear that she’ll just leave with some. 

Mitchell salutes with his wallet, pushing away from the back of the chairs, and moving towards Vala. “We drop her off, take off, and get no sleep for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours while we wait at the destination.”

“We’re not going to wait for her to wake up?” He sounds incredulous. He shouldn’t be at this point, but the amount of ways her plan can go wrong has now skyrocketed.

“Well now that would defeat the purpose of the whole plan.” Mitchell stops before her, sort of looking down, with an unusual expression on his face.

“We drugged her.”

“Daniel,” Sam sighs his name and he knows she doesn’t agree, but at this point they’re pressed for time and need answers. “It was her plan.”

“And it was a stupid plan. I still have no idea—”

“Yo, Jackson.” Mitchell’s voice overpowers the rant that he was about to launch into. He takes a step back from her, holding out the wallet. “If you want, you can remain behind incognito and make sure she remains untouched while in Sleeping Beauty mode.”

It’s not an ideal win, and ideal win would be puttering back to Earth and going to an art museum, because she’s probably never been to one, and the only pictures she sees on base are of American flags, presidents, and Sha’re

But he’ll take it.

“Fine.”

“Also, you gotta slip this into the pocket on her jacket or something.” Slides the wallet into his hand, worn, thin leather, but heavy with enough money to keep her safe.

“Why don’t you just do it?”

“Because I don’t want her waking up and kicking me in the throat.”


	3. Thump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really love this chapter.

They zatted her.

After Adria disappeared onto Ba’al’s ship with the rest of his Jaffa, Vala stared at him. Didn’t think it was a glare, he’s seen her glare before, ironically enough, mostly at Ba’al, but her expression was one he hadn’t seen before, and after two years of having her tag him around almost everywhere—including the bathroom sometimes—it upset him more than a glare from her ever could.

“Vala, you gotta come with us.” Mitchell tried to calm her by re-explaining the plan, but she remained unmoved, her arms slatted to her side at the top of the ramp. “We’re burning time here.”

“Everything will make sense,” Sam chimed in, her weapon lowered, his own weapon nonexistent. “You just have to come back to base with us.”

Teal’c didn’t say anything, but didn’t break her gaze, just nodded twice in agreement.

“Jackson—” Mitchell sort of gritted through his teeth.

And just her expression, it was so much more evolved than hatred, just a mixture of everything bad that can happen to one person, an amalgamation of what it takes to break someone.

“Vala—” and he’s surprised by his own emotion in his voice. He resigned to get her back onto that crappy cargo ship and home without any further injury to her. “—I promise that—”

“Your promises are more worthless to me than I ever was to you.” Her voice dripped with venom, with the malice she’d experienced by them in a memory that Sam remixed and stuck into her head after they drugged her. He just stood beside her body slumped in that chair, complacent while being complicit and knew that this was going to happen, that he was going to have to find a way to convince her that they were worthy of her trust, that getting on the ship with them wasn’t the dumbest move ever.

“You’re not worthless to us,” Sam answered as he remained a bit grazed by her attitude, by predicting an outcome so perfectly. “This was actually all your idea.”

“Oh, it was my idea to just hand me over to the IOA—”

“Princess, we didn’t—”

“Princess is right,” her laugh was dry and malicious, her mouth pulled widely into a hurt grin. “You locked me down in that mountain like one enough times to—”

Mitchell let his weapon hang at his side and raised his hands slowly, almost as a peace offering. “Hey, I didn’t do anything—”

“That’s right.” Her eyes shimmered, reflected the high light of the planet as without moving she vibrated pure emotion. “You all did nothing while I was falsely accused, you did nothing while I was imprisoned and removed and terrified and belittling myself because I finally trusted—”

“Just listen—” He took a step forward, twigs and brush snapped under his boot, and that’s all it took for her to bolt. Spooked by their broken bonds, spooked maybe because she trusted them at all.

She ran for the treeline, and Mitchell aimed his zat, but his aim must have been bad, or maybe he felt the way that Sam and him glowered on either side of him. “—shit.”

Or maybe he saw Teal’c bolt after her, the perfect example of predator and prey drive. She’s smaller, sleeker, with a head start and easily wove between tree trunks and bramble bushes.

But Teal’c had speed, strength and stamina.

Through the treeline and a few yards away in a clearing, Teal’c had pinned down her writhing body, his full weight squatted over her lower body, and his big hand planted between her shoulders on her back, directing her downwards anytime she tried to stand. Still her legs wiggled around, kicking him hard, but he didn’t release her.

“Jesus—” Mitchell muttered as he hooked the zat back onto his belt.

“Vala Mal Doran, please believe me when I say I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“You’re hurting me right now,” grunted from beneath him as Sam approached with a pair of thick metal handcuffs that he knew she could break out of.

“I believe you are just saying that so I will loosen my hold and you will escape.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I am using a minimal amount of direct force, so I know I am not hurting you.”  Teal’c shifted his knee into the boggy ground, as Sam clasped on the cuffs. “I am also your friend and I know you, therefore, I know you’re lying.”

“It’s all I’m good for, right?” Her words were spoken into the ground as Teal’c released his hold and directed her up by the cuffs.

He reached forward, and plucked a bit of moss from her hair, her clothing dirtied and stinking with bog mud. When she caught his eye, still nonplussed, still completely devoid of emotion to him, he felt the need to reiterate, “I promise this will all make sense.”

“And as I’ve said, your promises are intrinsically worthless.”

Now she sits across from him, her hands still cuffed tightly behind her back and she hasn’t said a single word since they got her back on the cargo ship. Just stopped talking all together, stopped addressing him or the others, ignores all the offers of food or drink they give to her, doesn’t answer when he asks if she wants a blanket because she’s usually cold and probably colder now that she’s covered in dirty water.

Teal’c, Sam and Mitchell are stuck in a conversation of where Ba’al could be with Adria and the best way to neutralize them both. He thinks she’s sleeping because her eyes are closed and she sort of leans into the wall, and as he listens into Sam’s plan, he hears the click none of the others do.

Just like he knew the plan would be bad, he knows what she’s doing, and as she jumps up, cuff free, to take the controls of the ship by surprise, he pulls the zat from beside him and shoots her once, swallowing harshly as her body hits the metallic floor with a thump.


	4. Star Signs

“I am sorry that I was required to restrain you yesterday, but I did not want you to become injured or lost due to your false memories.” Muscles sits across from her, the brightness of the white commissary contrasting with the dulled and muted tones of the last seventy-two hours. His back a pristine construction of muscles piled on muscles, and when he bows his head to her, somehow he’s still sitting with perfect posture. “Please accept my apology.”

“Think nothing of it.” Waves him off with a flick of her wrist, pretending to be more interested in the myriad of delectable desserts piled high on her plate, cakes, custards, and randomly selected fruit pies. The sugar she had no access too practically making her body thrum.

But it’s a supplement, not for her low energy, or the way she burns through the sugar to garner what Daniel calls a ‘sugar high’, which is why he thinks she eats so many sweets, constantly nibbles and munching on something, an addiction to the composition that is chocolate cake. Not so much a dependency because she doesn’t do it for comfort, even though these are exactly the foods Mitchell would call ‘comfort foods’, rather, she does it for the distraction, the idea of sitting at a table with a teammate, a man who tackled her yesterday so harshly that for a few seconds she forgot how to breathe.

The trust—It’s so odd trying to justify it to herself, to keep herself from sounding crazy, but trust, at least to her, isn’t something to simply be constructed, destroyed, and reconstructed in the increment of days. Trust is not something she simply doles out without forethought because when she was naïve, when she was young and starting out as a free agent, there were men she trusted and shouldn’t have.

Muscles grins at her and starts in on his own plate of several of the main courses, and although it looks like an overabundance, she sure she could eat that plate without resulting in an upset tummy.

He grins and it would normally relax her, comfort her, but it no longer does because the feeling of his full weight restraining her is still too fresh in her mind. They false memory they implanted and refused to weed out is still too fresh. Samantha promised her that it would begin to fade over the next several days with the real memories leaking back in, and all she can think of is how sleep is never easy to come by, and how she will now have to deal with the ramifications of two sets of memories.

“It’s awfully quiet over here.” Mitchell’s tray clacks to the table, his jelly jittering and his meatloaf crumbling a bit. He sits down with a groan, his blue fatigues crumpling with wrinkles and no longer military fresh. They haven’t had but a few hours of downtime and it’s very likely he worked through his.

She doesn’t answer and it’s quiet because she doesn’t answer.

Usually she’s the one pelting questions around, asking to go on a sojourn to a particular planet, or begging to go off base and visit a movie theater, or a zoo, or waterpark. Suggests again that she might learn to drive. There are so many wonderful things the Tau’ri have that are indicative of the planet and she gets to experience none of them.

It’s not even the idea of breaking free from the base for meager hours, but intelligence gathering. Learning the months, what year it is, the idea of time zones, geography of the planet, wars and histories and what country is at odds with which.

Even trivial fun things that no one chooses to indulge her with, how a deck of cards works, the idea behind the internet and internet shopping and what a firewall is and why it was so easy for her to overcome, what star signs they are so she can read their daily horoscope from said blocked sites and asks for a translation of her birthday into a Tau’ri one so they can celebrate it.

They never answer her, and perhaps it’s because she’s trying, straining what little pleasure they have left from their evolved lives of constantly being on the go—she understands, that was the way her life was too, pickpocketing, scheming, breaking and entering into museums, ruins, the houses of elite citizens to steal what was requires of her. It was that way until she was sucked through the supergate and made a Trojan horse—that reference she knows from an encyclopedia Daniel gave her.

Trust is earned, and she hasn’t earned theirs yet, she is, after all, on the fourth of Daniel’s credit cards.

They may give her a gun, and rush into battle with her, know her well enough to allow her to watch their backs and offer her the same, only she’s never forcefully restrained anyone, but Daniel and he was already restrained in that chair when she sat on him.

“Hey.” Cameron pulls his fork from his mouth, eyebrows drooping in what should be concern, but is more likely confusion. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” she almost interrupts him with her answer. “Just—adjusting still.”

“Take all the time you need, Princess.” He shovels another forkful into his mouth and he’s the only one bothering to eat his lunch now. “We don’t have another mission until we track Ba’al down, but you’re not cleared for that yet.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Vala—”

“Colonel Mitchell, I _will_ be there.”

She catches the glance he gives to Muscles, one of concern, shifty-eyed, and a bit frightened at what she could do in a situation involving herself, or rather the shell of Qetesh, Ba’al, and the Orici.

Where do her allegiances lay?

Because blood is thicker than water and she’s tired of bleeding for people who won’t do the same.

“Sure.” He nods, his full fork parked on his plate. “You can tag along.”

 


	5. Full Moon Crossing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, a brief apology for not updating in while. I'm actually on the next story in this series, but I also forgot that this story and this series existed. So again, sorry to all those waiting patiently.

When she opens the door the talking suddenly stops, and not in a way that indicates she was the cause of interruption, but rather, that she was the subject of the dialogue. Mitchell, who feels awkward with her around, perhaps because she still has his wallet full of stolen currency, fusses trying to find jobs to occupy her time, making sure she stays independent of the team, but also of Adria.

“Qetesh.” A menacing grin constructs on Adria’s face and it’s the perfect reminder that Ba’al, perhaps the worst thing she’s come across in all of her trips faring in and out of the galaxy, currently inhabits the only being her body has ever produced. “Did our poetic words about your body draw you into the room?”

Fortunately for her, she’s heard worse from him as Qetesh because although Ba’al certainly had power in numbers and proved his intelligence through schemes, he lacked the battle prowess Qetesh brought with her, though her number of Jaffa was significantly less, they were more devoted, more enamored to the point where dying in or off the battlefield with her was a sacrifice of highest praise.

She sighs, nonplussed, not put off by his words from Adria’s mouth in the slightest, and refuses to grace him with eye contact, instead turning to Daniel, who is stiff at her side, perhaps still caught in the nasty conversation from before. “Colonel Mitchell wishes to speak to you on the bridge.”

Doesn’t know how she should address any of them anymore. They told her the memories were fake, that they chaperoned her to the planet while she slept and knew which location to await her. Pressed that the entire ordeal was her plan, and even showed her the tape she made, explaining to herself that she was safe. If it’s all well and true, why does she feel like they could have simply engineered a new memory or lie suggesting it was her idea.

Why does everything concerning the last few days feel so incomplete. So dangerous to accept.

“All right.” He speaks calmly to her, as if she’s an animal that might snap if he uses to strong a voice. His expression softens when she doesn’t immediately announce her exit, and for a moment she thinks he may ask how she is, despite the team’s earlier agreement to work with her peacefully if they didn’t constantly pester her about her moods.

In the lapse of conversation, Ba’al seeks the chance to torment, when there is nothing left in her unbroken. “You’d be surprised to know how highly she thinks of you, Qetesh.” The absent accent doesn’t remove anything. He could masquerade as anyone and simply speak two words and she would pick him out. “Despite your failure at motherhood, she still cares for you deeply.”

“You know, there’s still the option of placing you into a medical coma while we decide what—”

Daniel’s threat is all but unvoiced as she gives no indication to her hearing what is meant to jar her. She’s well aware of Adria’s sentiments towards her, she knows all to well what it’s like to grow up with absent parents who don’t care and doing nothing but vying for their affection.

“Well then, I supposed the only thing we share hereditarily is an unbridled stubbornness.” She tires of waiting for Daniel and walks for the exit feeling no more perturbed than she did before entering the room, as malicious as Ba’al is, at least he is always candid about his efforts.

“I’d say there’s more than one familial trait.” He wiggles Adria’s body in the chair, and the memories of her being betrayed and abandoned are suddenly not as important as the bacchanalian days spent in his temple, before Qetesh double-crossed him. “Although her body is a pale comparison to yours.”

“Shut up.”

“Why Dr. Jackson, aren’t you the white knight coming to the defense of a lust-driven God.”

She continues to the door to allow them to fight in peace without her spectatorship. The words—the words are ones she’s heard before and can only harm her if she choses to let them. She learned a long time ago to be accountable only to herself, and perhaps that’s why the scrambled memories perturb her so much. Cannot tell the forgery from the factual, when its her only skill.

But again, that’s a deceit she’s told herself.

Truthfully upset because she trusted them. She genuinely trusted them, and the idea that they would do either of the possible scenarios causes her stomach turmoil. Berates herself because trust is the first step to being scammed, something she knows how to do quite well, and yet still allowed to happen to her.

“—Oh the festival nights spent rowing in the finest silk sheets made by the hands of a thousand slaves. The moon lighting every inch of her body, lotus petals stitched into her hair and gowns, and she was quite a spectacle, demanded all around stay and watch. Do you remember, Qetesh?”

Stops in the doorway, and when she turns Daniel is a shade of red, a combination between embarrassment from his chaste ears being violated by her past exploits, and unequivocal rage. She can still feel the smoothness of the silk, among other things, against her skin. The perfume of a lotus blossom gives her nausea now. “Of course, I remember.”

“The remembrance of that week, it pales the pain from your betrayal.”

“Don’t let it. Qetesh went into the celebration knowing of how she would double-cross you.” Ends her sentence with a blatant glare to Daniel, offering him one more chance of leave before she returns to upsetting Colonel Mitchell with her presence.

“Then at least she left me with the powerful memory of your body.” The smirk on Adria’s face is obviously for her upset, and Ba’al’s purposeful and first separation of her from Qetesh, using her body, but then, everyone in this room has used her body.

She must only be loyal to herself.

“Qetesh’s favorite parts of the ceremony were when she drank so much wine that she passed out during her ruts with you, as then she didn’t have to wait a full moon crossing for you to finish.”

And the doors hiss shut behind her.


	6. Odd Jobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the added scenes. I'm finishing up Family Ties now, but please let me know what you'd like to see next!

She wants to be in the operating room.

No one knows that.

Wants to sit and hold her daughter’s hand while they preform an extraction, remove one of the most grotesque creatures she’s ever had the displeasure of coming into contact with, from a brain stem and spinal cord that she solely created.

She created a person.

Well a half-human, half-ori entity, but no one else was involved in the creating process. No one else felt the fluttering and the growing and the heartburn. No one else spoke to that baby as she did when no one else was around. No one knew what it was like to carry her around for forty weeks and then sit through a quick, yet painful labor that left her broken in more than one way.

She didn’t value it, the pregnancy, didn’t cherish being pregnant because she knows was a rare occurrence, and that she only saw it through to the end to have the full experience.

But as she stands in the wake of Adria’s unconscious body, knowing what it’s like to have a Goa’uld within, whether by agreement or tragic happenstance, her body stirs, nostalgic for when little feet were within her and she could keep them safe.

“I know I already said this—”

Mitchell’s voice is clear, but soft beside her and she honestly didn’t see him sneak into the room. Realizes her hands are gripping the railing on Adria’s hospital cot rather tightly.

“—but you can still sit this one out.”

Sniffles, blinking away tears that gathered in her eyes during her reminiscent wanderings, her blank-eyed stare into the past, and tweaks her head up. “Looking for a way to jettison me into space?”

“I just want you to know that even if you’re technically stuck on this ship while we replace Ba’al, that you don’t need to be present for the operation.” His arms are crossed and his expression rather stern to perhaps tear through her comedic distractions.

“And what shall I do instead?” Turns to him but is unable to pry her hand completely from the railing. Days ago, Adria sat across from her, offering an understandably hesitant compassion for her supposed abandonment. What bothers her more, is her inability to never fully fall into her parental role.

Always put off by a rapidly aging daughter with God-like abilities.

She could’ve been a parent without supporting the murderous genocides. There had to be a way of loving without condoning.

But she slaps on a smile, one she doesn’t watch to carefully because it’s only at half strength, a weak copy of her normal energy, and distracts herself. “I’m fairly certain that the boys down in engineering won’t put me up again.”

“You threw a wrench in their plans last time.”

“I did muck up their routine a bit.”

“No, you literally threw that big rusted wrench into their newly designed generator.”

“Well then, I suppose there’s no where else to ditch me.”

Approaches her now, standing beside her, staring over Adria and the gesture is calming and welcoming, but on a bigger level it’s entirely useless, he has no way of knowing her internal monologue, her bifurcating thoughts on the situation.

How no matter what she chooses to do, she’s failed at her only chance of being a mother.

“We can always find another job for you.”

“Doing what?”

“Space coffee run?”

“As much as I appreciate your efforts at humor, they’re bordering on being patronizing now.” Her words, her voice grows shorter, quieter as her mind overtakes the situation with memories robbed from her, her own and Adria’s, and it’s throwing her into an emotional turmoil, one which she doesn’t wish to experience with a team who she still isn’t certain abandoned her.  

“Sorry.”

Wants to suggest that perhaps it’s his turn to find another job rather than shepherding her, for him to move into a different room so she can have these final few minutes with her daughter to dream about things that will never happen.

But the doors hiss open and the Tok’ra doctor stomps into the room, followed by his two friends. His gaze falls to Adria, and then to her. “I need to prepare her for the operation.” Is about to nod and bow out to ruminate about unbirthed memories by herself when, with a strike of malice in his voice, the doctor adds, “Qetesh needs to vacate the room.”

Wants to point out that it was actually his people who saved her from the hold of Qetesh, who healed her broken bones to the point where she could walk, talk, and breathe again, but supposes there will always be animosity between the Tok’ra and any former Goa’uld, and just hopes Adria is capable of joining there ranks, that after the Ori are vanquished, she’ll garner a chance at being a true mother.

But Mitchell, again, is not privy to these personal thoughts. He turns away from her, addressing the main Tok’ra. “You know you guys were the ones who pulled Qetesh out of her.”

“Yes. It was very seldom to preform an extraction those years ago, but Qetesh can attest to—”

“Vala.” He touches his forehead in grief. “Her name is Vala.”

“It is in our custom to call all hosts, both inhabited and previously inhabited by the symbiote’s name.”

“On this ship, you address her as Vala.”

And in that moment it becomes very clear which set of memories is counterfeit.


End file.
